


the worst in me

by lovelylogans



Series: 13 days of halloween [10]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Confusion, Gen, Imagination, The Split, brothers fighting, ethical confusion, maybe unsympathetic thomas?, self doubt, self hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-05 17:42:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21212549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelylogans/pseuds/lovelylogans
Summary: He’s done this a hundred thousand million times before. The Imagination is still his realm, still his place, despite the fact that...Well. Despite the fact that he didn’t feel like him very much, anymore.But a jaunt into the Imagination could change that. He’ll run around, save some people, feel more like him again. Or, well. The him he’s supposed to be now. Right? Because he’s supposed to be the good part, isn’t he? He’s supposed to be all damsels and dragons and danger, outwitting the enemy and saving the day. That’s him. That’s Roman....Right?





	the worst in me

**Author's Note:**

> __**NARISSA**: Ah, all this nauseating talk of true love's kiss, it really does bring out the worst in me. You know I've been thinking, if I'm going to remain Queen, I'm gonna need some sort of story when I go back. Hmm... What if a giant vicious beast showed up, and killed everyone? And poor defenseless Queen Narissa, she just couldn't save them! Let's begin with the girl who started it all, shall we?!  
**ROBERT**: Over my dead body.  
**NARISSA**: Alright. I'm flexible.   
-_enchanted, _2007
> 
> this is for the 13 days of halloween prompt over at [@sanderssidescelebrations!](erssidescelebrations.tumblr.com/post/187843455281/sanders-sides-spooky-month) today’s prompt is **dragon witch!** this is my first time writing the garbage man, so i hope i did him justice! also i better not see any remrom in the comments/tags!

R—No, no, it’s _Roman_ now, Roman Roman Roman—tightens his fingers around the hilt of his sword, his free one into a fist. His hands shouldn’t be shaking. They _shouldn’t._

He’s done this a hundred thousand _million_ times before. The Imagination is still his realm, still his _place, _despite the fact that...

Well. Despite the fact that he didn’t feel like _him_ very much, anymore.

But a jaunt into the Imagination could change that. He’ll run around, save some people, feel more like him again. Or, well. The him he’s _supposed_ to be now. Right? Because he’s supposed to be the _good_ part, isn’t he? He’s supposed to be all damsels and dragons and danger, outwitting the enemy and saving the day. That’s him. That’s _Roman._

...Right?

He doesn’t know. He _should_ know, but he doesn’t. Since The Split (it’s warranted capitals, in his mind, and he wonders if they’ve kept enough similarities that it’s warranted the same in _his_ mind, too) Roman’s felt... off. Confused. He finds himself shying away from things he’d have fully enthused about before—now he hates things he’d liked, and he likes things he’d hated, and everything is upside-down and inside-out and it’s like his whole existence has been thrown into a maze in a fun-house full of distorted mirrors, and he can’t get out of it, but he’s _trying_.

So. Imagination. Damsels. Dragon-slaying. Dashing sword-fights, magic spells, a prince in disguise—but is that his thing now, or _his?_ Is disguising himself good or bad? Is sword-fighting good or bad? Who’s got what?

Like he said—he’s _trying._

He follows his lines, even if everything’s changed around him—some of his usual subjects have vanished, replaced by new ones, scrubbed clean, and they act like that’s the way it’s always been, so he does too. The whole thing is straight out of a storybook—a (new) page comes to his palace, tells him of a fair maiden who’s been abducted by a (new) dragon witch, in an (old) crumbling tower that’s been the set of a fair few dramatic reenactments before. So he gets on his (new) horse, which doesn’t stink of the stables like his old horse, Phillipe, did, doesn’t have the pretty, burnished copper coat Phillipe did, but rather this one is pure white and only tarnished by streaks of gold in its mane. He isn’t sure what to name it. Caspian? Gwendolyn? Something very fairytale and innocent and _pure?_

He gets on his unnamed horse. He examines his (new) sword in its (old) scabbard. He rides through the forest.

Some things have changed and he has no idea why—the flora and fauna swap between familiar and alien—and some things have changed and he knows only too well _why_ they might have changed. But he doesn’t want to question it. He’s supposed to be the good one now. If he questions the status quo now, maybe there’ll be a _new_ new one, who knows how to smile and wink just _so_ and is always kind and gallant and never screws up and never comes up with nicknames that sound mean.

Maybe he’ll be called _Romeo,_ or something equally saccharine. 

Roman snorts, and then immediately shies away from the thought, like some bolt of lightning will come to strike him down, strike him in two—or would it be three, then? Because if the _bad_ one is already taken and the good one isn’t _good enough_ anymore, what’ll happen to that one? Will he just be thrown aside? Like a toy that’s lost all entertainment value, replaced by something newer and shinier?

He’ll try harder. He _will._ He’ll be the best, most perfect, most fairytale prince that ever walked the _earth._ He won’t ever, _ever_ find out.

“Sorry,” he tells the too-blue sky above him, as if anyone is listening.

And maybe someone is—because he can hear a scream, and a distant, furious roar.

_The dragon witch._ Roman’s heartbeat starts to thunder and finally, _finally,_ the fight, the rescue, that’s his _favorite_ part, he’ll go out there and he won’t be able to think about being good or bad or right or wrong, he’ll only think about parries and ripostes and lunges, and he digs his heels into the horse’s side with a “HYAH!” and goes galloping further into the depth of these recognized-foreign woods, to the tower, to the _climax_ of the story—

The (new) dragon witch is clutching to the tower, gouging out stones with its massive claws, sending dust and debris scattering upon the ground like snowfall. It roars, again—it has black scales, with almost sickly-green accents, two wings flapping, and massive, curving teeth that would surely gouge Roman right through, if he stepped wrong of them.

Well. It’s certainly a _foreboding_ villain, for his first solo fray back into the imagination, but he mustn’t let any misgivings halt him—he urges the horse forward, and bellows up at the witch, “Unhand her, villain!”

Strangely, the dragon seems to _frown_ at him, and he calls down, voice cartoonishly villainous, “What happened to Phillipe?”

Roman falters, as the horse cants in place. He knows that voice. It’s a new voice, but he _knows_ it, knows it as it’d been the first thing he’d heard after the split.

“Is that... you?” He calls uncertainly.

The dragon seems to shudder, before abruptly, it’s _shrinking,_ downsizing and downsizing and _changing_ until it’s in the shape of a man—a familiar man, wearing black and an almost-sickly green, a demented grin, and a mustache. He’s got bags under his eyes that Roman can see, even from here, ones like Anxiety’s got, and he feels a traitorous spark of concern.

And, for an alarming moment, Roman is _jealous._ Why did _he_ get the kickass transformation powers—into a _dragon?!_ That’s so cool!

Or at least, that’s what he would have thought _before_ The Split—now, his brain is tossing up example after example of villains transforming into animals—Ursula into Vanessa, Jafar into a genie, Maleficent into a dragon—it’s a sign of _evil._ It’s a sign of something _Bad,_ and _he’s_ supposed to be the Good One. But half his brain is still stuck on Before, while half of it is stuck on After, and he doesn’t know which thought is _his_, and he doesn’t know what he believes now, and—

“Did you send Phillipe to the glue factory?”

Roman recoils from the very _thought_—he’d spent days grooming Phillipe’s fur, feeding him apples and carrots and cubes of sugar, he’d _loved_ Phillipe—and the other him laughs.

Or—no. The other Roman? The other twin? The other side? Is he technically his own side, now? If they were both Creativity, then what—

His confusion gets abruptly set to the side when there’s another, terrified scream within the tower. Roman shakes his head, hard, as if he’ll be able to dislodge this whole _crisis_ of personality like he’s erasing an etch-a-sketch, and solidifies his grip on his sword’s handle, not quite bringing it out of the scabbard yet. 

“Unhand her, foul beast!”

He blows a raspberry, swinging <strike>frightfully</strike> from the side of the tower, only held by his boot, lodged between where a brick had been dislodged and his grip on one of the (new) spires—he could _fall,_ and what would happen then? 

Is he supposed to care? The death of a villain would be a good thing now, wouldn’t it? But then if that was what was _meant_ to happen, then why bother to keep them split in the first place, why not just divulge the bad, keep the good? Is it bad that he’s thinking about this? Murder _is_ bad, it’s definitely bad, he shouldn’t be thinking about it, but—

“Boooorrrr-iiiiing. C’mon, give me an insult with some _pep_ to it, aren’t you supposed to be _Creativity_ now_?!”_

Roman grits his teeth, and snaps before he can even think of stopping himself, “Aren’t you supposed to be the _scary_ one, Ja-nefarious?!”

For a moment, Roman thinks he’s gotten him, but that’s before that demented grin widens and that <strike>worrying</strike> crazed look in his eyes shines brighter.

“I said an _insult,_ not a compliment!” He preens, and Roman scowls.

“What, you can do better?” He says scornfully.

“Well, _duh,”_ he says, and then, gleefully, “You’re _boring_ now—Roman, isn’t it?”

Roman forces his hackles not to rise.

“I mean, think about it,” he wheedles. “Which of us is more useful—the one who comes up with the _original_ ideas, the unorthodox ones, or the one who comes up with the same—“ He flicks a dismissive hand, nose wrinkling. “White horse, sword, save-the-girl kind of story, over and over and over again?”

Roman feels an angry flush take over his cheeks. “_Unorthodox_ doesn’t have to mean _murder.”_

“Why not?” He said, and he sounded genuinely curious—like a small child asking why the sky’s blue, not posing the question of if murder’s genuinely punishable or not. “Which one will make more of an impact—if I drop this _sweet,_ innocent damsel from the tower, or you saving her?”

“Don’t you dare,” Roman snarls, and the other one—_Remus_—bares his still-animalistically-curved teeth in a grin.

_“Watch me.”  
_

With a wild yell, Roman unsheathes his sword, and charges.

(He wonders if it makes him bad that a fight and seeing <strike>his brother</strike> him is the first thing that’s made him feel semi-normal since The Split.)


End file.
